White Skin

 
I am excruciatingly aware of my
Phosphorescent,
Porcelain,
Pale,
White Skin,
As I walk into this room,
Full of young black students, 
Staring at me staring at them.

I know it’s probably just my fear,
My imagination,
Yes, my prejudice,
But I see judgment in their eyes –
In the way their body language seems to mock me,
Beckoning me further into their dark domain.
“What up, white lady?”
“How da suburbs?”
Jests or threats?

And I’m ashamed of myself and angry at them,
And ashamed and angry and baffled at the society
That we live in,
That makes it so,
That I can’t walk into this room,
Full of young black students,
Without being excruciatingly aware of my Aryan looks.
I’m staring at them with blue eyes,
Staring back at me with their brown eyes.

And I can I actually feel the blonde hair on my head
Burning a trail from my scalp down to my shoulder blades.
Even my winter coat is a blinding white;
I fear I could glow in the darkness.
Or is that their fear?

And why am I checking myself anyway?
I have the right to be blonde and Caucasian.
They don’t resent me for that.
Besides, I’m not even racist.
Right?
Right?

You see,
Sometimes I’m ashamed and angry 
Because I have to admit to myself
That I hate, yes hate the black culture
That white culture created.
Entitled.
Selfish.
Disrespectful.
Arrogant.
But a lifetime of abuse and prejudice,
Passed on from your parents’ 
Lifetime of abuse and prejudice,
Passed on from their parents’
Lifetime of abuse and prejudice
Will grow and nurture such a culture.

I once walked into a Spanish class,
Checked my whiteness,
Swallowed my fear,
But was stopped by the school principal 
Before I could start.
“You can teach the colors,”
He told me,
“Except for black, negro.
It offends some kids.”

Perhaps I should have left out blanco too.
Colorblindness will always be just a pipedream,
As long as we allow fear to corrupt education.
Apparently, Jackson, it does seem to matter
If you're negro o blanco,
Because negro is an offensive word in all languages.
So why am I still so excrutiantingly aware of being blanco
When I walk into a Spanish room of estudiantes negro?

It all just seems so futile and empty.
The lack of communication is deafening.
Inner-city teacher lounge discussions
Are rarely more than screaming matches
That only lead to more resentment and intolerance.

In such conversations,
I’ve been called
A privelaged, white woman
From the suburbs who has 
Never had to face a real challenge in her life.
I’ve also been told that this isn’t racism
Because reverse racism doesn’t exist.
And I’m ashamed of myself,
And I’m angry at them,
And I’m ashamed 
And angry 
And exhausted
By the society we live in for making it true.

I call them ignorant of my life,
And I am told never to call a black person ignorant.
Apparently it means something different than what I learned it to mean.
So I started to make a list of words I can no longer say.
So now, thanks to bigotry and the great division of cultures,
I have to learn a new dictionary.

And I have to check my whiteness
When I walk into a room of black students.